


we might be dead by tomorrow

by lesbianryuko (ashisverymuchonfire)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Awakening Era Anders (Dragon Age), Canon Compliant, Fake Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Dragon Age II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisverymuchonfire/pseuds/lesbianryuko
Summary: Leaving the Wardens is the hardest thing Anders has ever done.A study of what happens if Anders “dies” in Awakening.





	we might be dead by tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> SUP so i was planning on finishing this for januanders but then like. obviously that didn't happen but it's FINE so!!! heres a fic about anders and my warden bc their friendship is extremely important to me!!! when i played dao for the first time i was too lazy to change the default name for f!tabris but i actually really like the name kallian for her so yeah thats her name now i've decided
> 
> this was a really weird fic to write bc i took some of canon into consideration but then other parts of canon i kind of just had to. throw out the window a lil bit. there's a brief scene in here that's directly from awakening but with a couple lines changed
> 
> ANYWAY i worked rlly hard on this and put a lot of love into it so!! pls enjoy!! thank u!!! title is from "we might be dead by tomorrow" by soko

Anything is better than being in the Circle, but if Anders had had a choice in the matter, he probably wouldn’t have become a Warden.

It’s a fairly noble occupation; he’ll give them that—risking death just to _become_ a Warden, dealing with nightmares of the Archdemon, shortening their lifespans just so that they’re able to take down as many darkspawn as they can—it’s a fate reserved for only the truly selfless and those with no other options.

When Anders was recruited, he was the latter.

Granted, he thanks the Maker every day that he’s not in the Circle, but being a Grey Warden is just so _depressing_. He feels sometimes like he’s constantly surrounded by death and corruption, not to mention the horrible twist in his stomach every time he goes underground. He’s caught the Warden-Commander watching him a few times while in the Deep Roads, an eyebrow raised in concern at his shallow breaths as he reminds himself that this is not the Circle. After the third time, he flashes her a grin to cover his panic and casually says, “Is this a bad time to tell you I’m claustrophobic?”

“Well,” she replies, her steel blue eyes gleaming in the darkness, “the faster we move, the faster we can get out of here.”

Warden-Commander Tabris is a fierce woman. She doesn’t walk; she _saunters_ , her head held high and her jaw firmly set, as if daring the world to underestimate her. Maker only knows how many darkspawn have died on her blade. Some say she’s too cocky, too aggressive, too headstrong, too impulsive—but when she speaks, everyone stops to listen, even if they don’t like what they’re hearing. She just commands that sort of attention.

Anders wasn’t sure he’d like her when he first met her, but she didn’t seem to care about his apostasy, and at the time that was good enough for him to follow her into battle. Now, only a few months later, he can’t deny that he’s fond of her. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her, but she recognizes injustice when she sees it, whether it’s against elves or mages or everyday people. She’s angry, but she’s not cruel.

Anders can’t ignore the pang of guilt he feels, then, when he starts to plan his departure.

It’s not the Commander’s fault. In fact, she’s probably the main reason he didn’t leave sooner. But the longer he stays here, the more he sees of Grey Warden life, the less he feels like he belongs. It seems like everyone else is a Warden because they want to be, for one reason or another. Anders is only a Warden because he’s not sure he has anywhere else to go.

It dawns on him at some point, though, that perhaps there _are_ places for him to go. He’s free now, and if he travels out of Ferelden, the templars might have a harder time finding him. Who’s to stop them from deciding that Grey Wardens are no longer untouchable and marching to Vigil’s Keep to capture every mage there?

More than that, however, is something (or, rather, some _one_ ) that’s been weighing heavily on his mind since he was recruited: Karl Thekla. When his friend and former lover was transferred to the Kirkwall Circle, Anders swore—to Karl and to himself—that he would follow. It’s been a few years since then, but Karl is almost certainly still there. Even if he isn’t, Kirkwall is an ideal place to go: outside of Ferelden, but close enough that it’s full of Fereldan refugees from the Blight. It wouldn’t be that difficult to blend in with such a large crowd, and there’s no Grey Warden outpost nearby. The city also houses a fairly large population of mages, and with the Kirkwall Circle as strict as he’s heard, there are undoubtedly mages who desire freedom like he did. If helping them means fleeing the Wardens and moving to the Free Marches, then that’s what he’ll do.

Maker, he’s sounding more like Justice every day.

He plans on leaving after they find and defeat “the Mother,” when he hopefully won’t be needed anymore—not as much, at least. He’s sure Sigrun or Oghren would be happy enough to kill a few extra darkspawn in his place. The only person he’s worried about is the Commander.

The next time they return to Vigil’s Keep, Anders finds her standing with her back up against the statue of Andraste in the courtyard. “Anders,” she calls.

Anders starts a little at her voice, having been preoccupied with thoughts of his plan. “Err...yes, Commander?” he says, half-convinced that she somehow knows what he’s thinking.

She rolls her eyes. “I _told_ you, I hate titles. It’s Kallian.” She waves a hand. “Come over here.”

His eyes narrowed in confusion, Anders makes his way over to the statue. He’s not sure why he’s always had trouble calling her by her given name. Perhaps it’s because, as close as they are, he still doesn’t truly feel like her equal. “Am I in trouble?” he asks with a smirk, but he’s only half-joking.

Commander Tabris— _Kallian,_ he tells himself, _Kallian_ —laughs and shakes her head. “You? No. Oghren? Maybe.”

Anders mimics her posture, resting his back against the statue and crossing his arms. “What is it, then?”

For a moment she doesn’t say anything; she just stares at the muddy ground, twirling her dark brown hair. Quite a few strands have come loose from the two braids that frame her tattooed face, but she’s long past the point of caring. Finally she says, “You don’t want to come with me when we face the Mother, do you?”

Anders raises an eyebrow. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t quite this. “Well, no, not really,” he admits. Frankly, the idea of going deep underground to the Mother’s lair makes his skin crawl. “But I’ll do it.” That much is true, too. If she wants him there, he’s not going to refuse her.

Kallian shakes her head, looking like she’s already made up her mind. “No. You can stay.”

As much as Anders hates the Deep Roads, he finds himself saying, “If you need me, I’ll be there. You don’t have to—”

Kallian holds a hand up to stop him from talking. “What I _need_ ,” she says, “is for you to be at your best. I don’t want to bring you down into the Deep Roads when you don’t fight as well, and you always look like you’re moments away from getting sick, and then I—” She cuts herself off then, biting the inside of her cheek and looking away from him.

Anders narrows his eyes. “And then you…?”

Kallian scowls. The purple swirling tattoos on her cheeks hide her blush somewhat, but not completely. If he’s not mistaken, the great Hero of Ferelden is actually _embarrassed._ “And then I...get...worried.”

Reflexively, Anders laughs a little. “You, worried?”

“Yes, me,” Kallian snaps. “Is that so strange? Is it so shocking that I care about you and your wellbeing?”

For a moment, Anders just stares at her, dumbfounded. “I...didn’t realize,” he says lamely. “It’s just...it’s been so long since someone considered me a friend.”

“Well, I do,” Kallian says defensively. “I thought I made that clear. I’ve called you a friend before, haven’t I?”

Anders shrugs, thinking back to when she helped him search for his phylactery, when she fought and killed templars to protect him—when she looked him in the eye and said, _You’re a friend. Friends stick up for each other_.

“I thought you were just saying that,” he tells her, and it’s the truth.

Kallian shakes her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Why do you think I take you with me on every mission? Why do you think I agreed to help you look for your phylactery? Why do you think I killed templars for you without a moment’s hesitation? Why do you think I gave you a damn _cat_?”

As if on cue, Ser Pounce-a-Lot meows from inside Anders’s pack. Since it’s relatively safe for him to wander Vigil’s Keep, Anders reaches into the pack and pulls the cat out, setting him on the ground in front of him. This gives him time to collect his thoughts enough to answer Kallian properly. Finally, he confesses, “I’ve considered you to be a friend for some time, but...I was afraid you were just, I don’t know, trying to get into my good graces or something.”

For a moment, Kallian just looks at him, her expression unreadable. “Anders,” she says, her voice sounding soft for perhaps the first time since he’s known her. “I’m...not great with emotions, so I’m only going to say this once. These past few months, you’ve been one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” She brushes a few strands of hair out of her face and glances away briefly. “And I just want you to remember that I’m so happy to have known you.”

Her use of the past tense isn’t lost on Anders. “Comman—Kallian,” he says slowly, “why are you talking like that?”

She shrugs and looks down at Ser Pounce-a-Lot, who is winding himself around her legs and purring softly. “You never know what might happen,” she says. “I don’t want my last thoughts to be about all the things I should’ve said while I still had the chance. I don’t want to die with any more regrets than I already have.”

That’s a new one, too—the idea of the Hero of Ferelden having _regrets_. Anders nods, trying not to picture it: Kallian Tabris, barely over five feet tall but with daggers that have felled dragons, her fire quelled forever. “Well, now you’re just making me look bad,” he says with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I mean, I haven’t...composed an ode for you or anything.”

Kallian holds her hands up. “Please, don’t,” she replies, that familiar twinkle returning to her eyes. “Just...say whatever you need to say.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “Be careful what you wish for,” he says, only half-teasing.

He knows he should tell her about his plan, but something stops him. Perhaps it’s the fear of upsetting her, but that’ll probably happen no matter what, whether he tells her beforehand or leaves without notice. If he’s being completely honest with himself, a part of him fears that if he tells her, she’ll try to stop him. Even if she doesn’t, it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t tell anyone. There’s no way the templars can pry information out of her if she has no information to give, and he doesn’t want an innocent person to be held accountable for his actions.

“I told you,” he says finally, turning to face her. “It’s been years since I thought of anyone as a friend. I just hope you know how grateful I am...for everything.”

For just a split second, Kallian seems stunned, the tips of her pale pointed ears turned red. Then she grins, all weird teeth and eye crinkles, and claps her hand against his back. “Good! Now that that’s over with, wanna come watch me piss off some nobles? I asked the seneschal to assemble them so we could discuss the darkspawn armies. They should be ready by now.”

Despite himself—despite everything—Anders smiles back at her. “Never miss it!”

Side by side, Ser Pounce-a-Lot trailing behind them, they head into the throne room, Anders taking smaller strides so that Kallian doesn’t have to jog to keep up with him. ( _I completely sympathize with the dwarves,_ she said once. _You humans are too damn tall._ ) When they step through the threshold, they find themselves nearly surrounded by Fereldan lords, all chattering nervously amongst themselves. Many of Kallian’s other companions have already gathered. Instinctively, Anders picks up Ser Pounce-a-Lot and places him back in his pack so that no one steps on him.

Kallian sighs and takes a few steps toward Seneschal Varel. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

Just as she greets Varel and takes her place beside him, one of the nobles makes his way up the red carpet toward them. “We’ve waited enough,” he says. “Those who are late will just have to be filled in.”

“Lord Eddelbrek,” Varel replies coolly, gesturing toward Kallian, “this is the Commander of the Grey’s council, not yours.” From his place on the sidelines, Anders thinks he can see Kallian roll her eyes at the long-winded title.

“I am fearful for the villages on the plains,” Lord Eddelbrek says, turning to Kallian. “There’s a darkspawn army— _army_ —in the field. And with the soldiers returning to the Vigil…” He trails off.

As usual, Kallian holds her head high when she responds. “The enemy is out of hiding. We must find them and strike.”

“This is no—” Eddelbrek starts, but his words are interrupted by another voice.

“Commander,” an unfamiliar elven woman gasps, sprinting through the crowd and skidding to a stop in front of the seneschal. “Commander!”

“What is it, girl?” Varel asks, still calm.

“A darkspawn army is within sight of Amaranthine,” the woman says, fear in her voice.

Anders exchanges a glance with Nathaniel, his heart dropping. This isn’t going to end well.

“Maker protect us,” Eddelbrek says, shaking his head. “They’re attacking the city?”

“Some of the Vigil’s soldiers are still there,” Captain Garevel adds. “She won’t fall easy.”

“Our forces cannot move quickly enough,” Varel adds, his facial expression giving no hint as to his emotions. “But a small band might make it in time.”

Kallian glances over at Anders and makes a face. They all know what that means.

“But that’s...suicide!” Eddelbrek exclaims, and Anders is inclined to agree.

But Garevel is not to be deterred. “We must try.”

Kallian gives the seneschal a wry half-smile. “That would be me, then? It’s never dull here.”

“Unless the Warden recruiter promised you quiet rural contemplation, you knew what you signed up for,” Varel replies. Anders can’t tell whether or not he took the joke.

Halfway across the room, Sigrun says excitedly, “Fighting a horde of darkspawn with almost certain death awaiting? Don’t even _think_ of leaving me here, Captain!” (Anders can’t relate to that sentiment at all, but he’s glad she’s having fun.)

Varel raises an eyebrow at her, before returning his attention to Kallian. “Who do you want to take with you, Commander?”

Kallian flashes Sigrun a toothy grin. “I won’t deny Sigrun’s request. She’s with me.”

Sigrun sounds practically delighted. “I’m already dead—I’ve nothing to lose!”

Varel, all business, ignores her comment. “Who else?”

At that, Kallian scans her companions’ faces. “Nathaniel,” she says, sounding more serious, “this is a chance to redeem your family.”

A smile graces Nathaniel’s lips—something Anders doesn’t see often. “Initially, I thought you were utterly mad to invite me to join your order. But redemption...a man could die for that, and feel good about it.”

It’s poetic, what he says. Poetic...and final.

“Anyone else?” Varel asks.

Kallian nods slowly. “One more person.”

Very briefly, her eyes land on Anders; Maker only knows what’s going through her head. Then she turns away from him and says, “Justice, you’re with me.”

Justice nods, his voice filled with determination. “As it should be. Our foes will pay heavily for their transgressions. This I swear.”

Varel nods affirmingly. “And so it is decided.”

“I’ll make sure the Vigil’s ale supply is safe,” Oghren says to Kallian with a chuckle. “Leave a few darkspawn skulls for me to kick in, right?”

“May the wind be ever at your back, Commander,” Velanna chimes in. For once, there is a softness in her voice—a fondness.

Anders suddenly becomes aware that it’s probably his “turn” to say something, but nothing even remotely adequate comes to mind, so he does what he always does to deflect his emotions: he jokes. “Oh, I miss out on the suicide mission? Life can be so unfair.” It earns him a tiny giggle from Kallian, but it still doesn’t feel sufficient, so he quickly—and somewhat awkwardly—adds, “But...uh...good luck. Chin up, and all that?”

Before he can even think to say anything else, Seneschal Varel turns to Kallian and says, “The rest of us will stay here. Maker protect you and hold you close, Commander.” He and Garevel both hold their arms over their chest, crossed like an X, and bow slightly.

Though no one has actually said it yet, they’re all thinking the same thing: that this is the beginning of the end, that this battle will lead to the final confrontation with the Mother. They’re so close to finding her hideout; she’s probably sending out these armies to draw the Wardens right to her. The thought makes Anders slightly sick—that she’s just _waiting_ for them, that they could be walking right into her trap.

It doesn’t take long for Kallian, Garevel, and their companions to get ready. Anders stands with his back up against the Andraste statue, Ser Pounce-a-Lot lying next to his feet, and watches as Kallian examines her enchanted swords and daggers, as she fills her pack with bombs and poisons. Soon enough, she meets up with the rest of her group and says grimly, “Are we ready to march?”

“Indeed,” Garevel replies. “We must make haste if we have any hope of saving Amaranthine.”

Kallian nods—and then she steals a glance in the direction of the statue. “Er...just one moment,” she says to Garevel, who raises an eyebrow in confusion and mild annoyance as she runs over to Anders.

“What are you—?” Anders starts, but he’s interrupted by the feeling of the great Hero of Ferelden wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a fierce embrace.

It catches him completely off-guard, so it takes him a moment to reciprocate. She’s a full foot shorter than him, so she buries her face into his chest. “Keep the Vigil safe for me,” she says, her voice muffled.

The hug lasts maybe four seconds, maximum, but it’s the most affection Anders has ever seen her express. When she pulls away, she kneels down on the ground and gives Ser Pounce-a-Lot a scratch behind the ears. “Be good for Anders,” she tells him.

As she starts to turn around and head back to the group, Anders finds his voice. “Kallian.”

Kallian stops in her tracks and glances over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Anders clears his throat, forces himself to look her in the eye. “Just...come back alive, will you?”

Kallian smiles at him, that familiar spark in her eyes. “Of course.”

—

For a while, Anders isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He’s so used to accompanying Kallian on nearly every mission. He ends up sitting down at the base of the Andraste statue with Ser Pounce-a-Lot in his lap, his little head on Anders’s chest. The cat can probably sense his nervousness.

Deep down, he knows that everything will probably fine—that Kallian will somehow miraculously come out on top, like she always does. He also knows that going on the mission with her wouldn’t have fixed much of anything, because he’d have been just as nervous, but for a different reason. Yet, no matter how much he reasons with himself, he can’t shake the worry.

At some point, Anders decides to start subtly gathering his belongings, though he doesn’t have many. The time to leave the Grey Wardens is rapidly approaching, and he still isn’t quite sure what to do. He almost has enough coin now to buy passage to Kirkwall—Kallian shares the money she earns (or “finds”) with her companions, even if they insist that they don’t want or need it—but something feels...wrong. He’s been through so much with the Wardens, with Kallian. Just up and leaving without telling her feels like it would be a massive betrayal...but at the same time, he already knows that he _can’t_ tell her.

He could leave right now, slip out in the middle of the night and be on his way to the Free Marches by sunrise, but he doesn’t think he can bring himself to flee without making sure that Kallian is alive first. The worry and uncertainty will eat him up if he doesn’t see her waltz back into the keep with his own eyes.

For a couple of days, Anders keeps himself busy—practicing spells, playing with Ser Pounce-a-Lot, reading the book Kallian gave him on the history of phylacteries. He almost starts to forget about the current stakes—that is, until a messenger arrives with grave news: they’ve spotted another darkspawn army marching toward the Vigil.

The next day or two are spent preparing. They have no idea if Kallian and Captain Garevel know of this second army, but most of the people at the keep agree that it’s too much to hope for them to return in time, if at all. It’s up to them to protect the Vigil...or die trying.

Anders starts to wonder, in the hours before the first fireball is catapulted into the walls, if he’ll even get the chance to run away, or if he’ll die here, fighting off hordes of darkspawn. Kallian’s voice rings in his ears, her final request before she left: _Keep the Vigil safe for me._

If nothing else, that’s the one thing that keeps him from running. If he dies here, then so be it.

—

The battle is long and hard.

Anders runs almost nonstop from one area of the keep to the next—from the front gates to the courtyard, from the courtyard to the ramparts, lighting darkspawn aflame by the dozens and healing other soldiers as quickly as he can so that they can keep fighting. He loses count of the amount of darkspawn he kills; all he knows is that it’s not long before he can’t go anywhere without stepping on a charred or frozen corpse. Sometimes he has to force soldiers to stop fighting for a moment so that he can heal them properly, before they end up killing themselves simply because they didn’t want to stop cutting down darkspawn for even a second. A few of them outright refuse healing—Anders isn’t quite sure if it’s because they’re afraid of magic or because they _want_ to get themselves killed (perhaps a mixture of both).

Even with healing, the casualties on their side begin to pile up. Every time Anders thinks, _That has to be the last of them,_  more darkspawn appear to take the place of the ones he just felled. It feels neverending.

Anders is fighting alone in a dark back corner of the courtyard when the darkspawn stop coming. It’s late at night, and he almost doesn’t believe it. He waits for more to ambush him, for another armored ogre to barrel through the gates, but none appear. In the distance, he thinks he hears someone say, “It’s over.”

Anders sighs in exhaustion and relief, falling to his knees on the ground. His side and arm are stinging, bleeding through his robes, but he doesn’t have the energy at the moment to heal himself. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, the air rattling in his chest and his heart still pounding in his ears. _I’m alive. I’m alive._

Inside his pack, Ser Pounce-a-Lot mews softly, as if to comfort him. Anders kept him close through the entire battle—it felt much better than leaving him somewhere in the Vigil, where the darkspawn could break in and find him. “We’re alive,” Anders whispers, more to himself than to the cat. “We made it.”

When he opens his eyes, his gaze falls on a body lying about twenty feet away from him, even further away from the center of the keep. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet and stumbles over. If he’s lucky, he might just have enough mana in him to save one more life.

He’s a few feet away from the person when he realizes that they’re already dead—an arrow right through the neck and gore where a face should be. All Anders can tell is that the man was another mage Warden, made obvious by the robes on his body and the staff lying limply in his hand, and that he was probably fairly young, with blond hair.

As Anders stares in awe at the corpse, an idea—a crazy, horrible, brilliant idea—worms its way into his head.

He barely thinks when he does it. He searches the body for any belongings that might identify the man and finds only a ring, which he shoves into his pack. He glances over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching him; sure enough, they all seem to be preoccupied with cleaning up the bodies at the front of the keep and taking care of the injured. They have yet to notice the desperate mage faking his own death in a faraway corner, hidden by several walls and shadows.

Anders doesn’t feel the need to change the corpse’s robes at all; they look similar enough to his that most people wouldn’t notice any difference unless he and the man stood right next to each other. Still, if he wants the Wardens to think that he’s dead, he’ll need to leave something of his behind.

It doesn’t take long for him to remember one of his defining accessories. Reluctantly, he reaches up and removes his gold earring, suddenly feeling somewhat naked without it. Luckily, the man’s right ear is already pierced, so Anders slides the piece of jewelry through with a sigh. Then, for added measure, he pulls the silver bracers that Kallian gave him off of his wrists and slips them onto the man’s. She’s sure to recognize them.

When Anders stands up and looks down at the body, something still doesn’t seem quite right. Even with all the gore, it feels like someone could still identify the man. If this plan has any hope of succeeding, the Wardens have to believe that this body is the body of Anders.

As he surveys the area again—still no one has noticed him—he takes note of the charred darkspawn corpses, burned almost beyond recognition by his magic, and there he finds his solution. Turning back to the body, he aims a small blast of fire at it. Sure enough, it starts to burn, the robes and skin partially destroyed within half a minute. Anders shoots another stream of flame at the corpse and watches as it becomes even more grotesque, even less recognizable.

For a moment, Anders stops to apologize in his head to the man whose body he just desecrated and disguised as his own. Then he grabs his staff and makes a run for it.

He was already standing near the edge of the courtyard, so it doesn’t take much to hop over a fence and sneak away—everyone else is focused on things that are much more important than searching the fields (which are mostly filled with dead people and nothing else). Still, Anders keeps running until he’s sure that no one can see him in the nearby forest. Only then does he finally sit down, his back up against a tree, and let Ser Pounce-a-Lot out of his pack.

Ser Pounce-a-Lot twitches his ears and meows inquisitively, as if asking Anders what they’re doing and where they’re going. Anders just sighs. He could ask himself the same thing.

Logically, it’s a good plan. The Grey Wardens won’t hunt him down if they think he’s dead; and if the templars come to the Vigil looking for him, they’ll just be informed of his “death.” Sure, they still have his phylactery, but will they even bother with it if they think he’s dead? Regardless, he’ll still be safer now than he was before. He can start over, _really_ start over, in a way he never dreamed would be possible.

A cold gust of wind suddenly cuts through him, and instinctively, he reaches into his pack to grab the wool scarf that Kallian gave him—he’d put it in there to keep from getting blood on it. As he wraps the soft, patterned fabric around his neck, a memory surfaces, of Kallian shoving the scarf into his arms without looking at him and mumbling, “Here. Take this.”

Anders had looked at the scarf in confusion, then at her, and said, brilliantly, “Uh...what?”

Kallian pretended not to care what he thought. She was pretty convincing, too, back before Anders learned to recognize it. That was only a few weeks after they met. “You looked cold,” she said bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest. “So...there.”

Anders had tried not to smile, and failed.

Now, though, the memory just aches in his chest. Which is worse—Kallian thinking he’s dead or thinking he betrayed her?

Though he promised himself that he’d stay behind to make sure she comes back alive, Anders knows that he can’t risk being seen. Besides, if she dies, he’ll be sure to hear about it; and if she succeeds and lives, he’ll hear about that, too.

It takes him a long time to push himself to his feet, and even longer to start walking away from the Vigil. From inside his pack, Ser Pounce-a-Lot meows in protest, and Anders tries his best to ignore it. He’s tired in every sense of the word, his shoulders aching from the weight of those he’s leaving behind—Nathaniel, Kallian, Justice. No amount of apologies could make any of it easier, but still he whispers the words into the wind and forces himself not to look back.

—

He merges with Justice a couple weeks later.

It isn’t on purpose, meeting Justice again. Anders is only a day or two away from boarding a ship to Kirkwall when he encounters a small band of Grey Wardens—plus Justice—that had been sent to clear out some leftover darkspawn north of the Vigil. Thankfully, Justice is the only one that notices him, and he must have learned a thing or two about tact, because he waits until he can get Anders alone to harangue him about abandoning the Wardens.

But when Anders describes his reasoning—that he needed to leave the Wardens to help Karl and other mages in Kirkwall—Justice is surprisingly understanding (though he still doesn’t approve of Anders faking his own death, even after Anders explains that he couldn’t have anyone chasing after him). If it’s to fight injustice, if he feels that it’s for the greater good, he’s willing to make a few just sacrifices. The Blight is well and truly over, and the Wardens don’t need Anders anymore—not nearly as much as the mages do.

Once they reach the same page, Justice poses that fateful question, the question that’s been hanging in the air between them.

_Have you thought at all about my offer?_

Anders has. Extensively. But then the darkspawn attacked Amaranthine, and Justice went with Kallian to face them, and Anders accepted that he’d have to leave before the group came back. Until now, he thought it was no longer possible.

_Do you have the courage to accept my aid?_

Anders takes a deep breath and thinks, _Maker, I hope so._

—

Anders wasn’t present when Kallian learned of his supposed “death.” But Justice was, and through him, Anders remembers.

It’s a strange phenomenon, remembering something for the first time, something that he simultaneously did and did not experience. He doesn’t know why, of all Justice’s memories, his head has decided to make _this_ one the one he sees first, alone in his room at an old inn near the Waking Sea. The City of Chains lies across the water, a constant reminder of what he had to abandon to get this far.

Kallian and her companions had just finished slaying the Mother and were a few days away from the Vigil when she received a letter one evening. As she read it over, Sigrun, ever curious, had asked, “What does it say?” Kallian did not respond.

Sitting on the other side of the campfire, Justice had watched as the Warden-Commander’s face shifted from confusion to shock, then disbelief, then horror. Her lips formed a silent _No_ , and the letter fell from her shaking hands.

Eyes narrowed in concern, Sigrun grabbed the letter and skimmed over it, gasping a few seconds later. Next to her, Nathaniel glanced over her shoulder, and his eyes widened. Under his breath, he whispered, “Oh, no…”

Justice, sitting on Nathaniel’s other side, was the last to know the content of the letter, but it upset and angered him to the core. “Kallian,” he said firmly, “we must avenge Anders. Those who are responsible for his death must pay.”

Kallian didn’t look at him, didn’t even indicate that she’d heard him. Nathaniel turned to him and said quietly, “The darkspawn that killed him are dead, Justice, as is the Mother, who sent them. Justice has already been served.”

He was right, but Justice still wasn’t satisfied. Anders deserved better, so much better. “Surely there must be something else we can do.”

“They’ll take care of his body at the Vigil,” Nathaniel assured him. He seemed so calm, but his unsteady voice betrayed how he truly felt.

Justice returned his attention to Kallian, whose gaze was trained on the campfire. She bit down on her bottom lip to stop it from trembling and began clenching and unclenching her fists. When she blinked, a tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away furiously. “Fuck,” she mumbled, her voice cracking. Covering her eyes with her hand, she looked down into her lap.

Sigrun put a hand on Kallian’s upper arm. “I’m...I’m sorry, Kallian.”

At that, Kallian let out a rough choking sound. It had been difficult for most of her companions to get used to just calling her by her name, and they still slipped up from time to time. Justice had needed it explained to him—it felt disrespectful not to call her by a title she had earned, a title that indicated honor. But Kallian’s feelings made sense— _I don’t want to feel like I’m above everyone else. I want us to be equals,_ she’d said—and so Justice had made it a point to respect her wishes, and to ensure that others did the same.

Kallian turned away from Justice and rested her forehead on Sigrun’s shoulder. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight, and her cheeks and ears burned bright red, as if she was embarrassed by her own sorrow. Her chest shook with wet sobs, and her lip was curled into an angry snarl, as if to say, _How dare they take him from me?_

Justice exchanged a glance with Nathaniel. He had known Kallian the longest, but even he seemed bewildered. None of them had ever seen her so broken down. She was the woman who spit in the eyes of the Archdemon, always confident and determined, always fearless, always pushing forward—and here she was, crumpled on the ground with grief so intense it was almost palpable.

Her hair fell into her face, and Sigrun gently brushed the strands away, her brows furrowed and her lips turned down. Kallian’s voice was hoarse. “Why him? Why him?”

When the tears finally slowed down, she didn’t talk; she just stood up from the campfire and fled to the woods. Justice could hear her shoving daggers into trees, taking out her anger on imaginary enemies. None of them stopped her.

At the inn near the sea, Anders lies on his back on the uncomfortable bed, holding the wool scarf to his chest and staring blankly at the ceiling. Nothing he said to Kallian before she left feels like it was enough. He tries to push away Justice’s memories of her in the days after that night—shaken, bitter, somber, her smile much less common and no longer reaching her eyes—but it’s no use. The image seems to have burned itself into his mind, as if to taunt him: _You did this. You did this._

He can only pray that it was worth it.


End file.
